March 15, 1982

In 1982, I was a senior in high school and just 17 years old. 

I was a stock boy at a grocery store, and the two best parts of working there were:

1). All the pretty girls worked there.

And

2). My buddy Tom, who lived four houses away, also worked there, and we often worked the same shift. 

We often refused all offers of rides to and from work. We would walk it, through the woods to the store and back.

Usually, on the way back we’d have a few beers.

We always had great conversation and most of our chatter was filled with girls we loved, and dreams of our future.

On that day long ago, we were drinking Miller Lite ponies and it was a warm day.

We walked and talked about those girls we were crazy about, and in those days, they were the only girls who would ever matter.

The more beer we drank, the deeper our conversation went.

We talked about the Stones and the Who as well - our favorite bands.

Then we looked down the long road ahead. We had a lot of empty pages in the story of our lives.

Just had to write it.

“Days just pass us by,” I said. “We won’t remember today. It’ll be gone, like all the other days. Nothing matters.”

(Alcohol is a depressive, and I was most likely down about the girl).

Tom was a bit more optimistic:

“We just have to do our best. Things work out, and we can remember this day if we want to.”

We have marked March 15th each year as if it’s our birthday.

I texted Tom first this year. 

(Sometimes he remembers first).

We chatted about music.

He still listens to The Who more than The Stones.

(I’m the opposite).

We didn’t talk about those specific girls.

(Turns out there were more than 2 girls in the world).

Neither of us drinks much beer anymore.

(The talk of kids replaced the beer).

And we marveled over the passage of time.

43 years gone by.

(We lost some hair along the way).

But we filled the pages of our stories and if I close my eyes I can still see where we were positioned on the side of the road.

We drank two 8-packs of ponies that afternoon.

Making a memory on a throwaway day that neither of us have ever-forgotten.

Every day can mean something.